You walk through your day dissatisfied; there is something missing, or something amiss. In the evening you are tired, but it is weariness of spirit, not a physical depletion. Your body has not been a channel for a day well lived, life flowing into and through you, now ready to be replenished; instead, your energy is bound within you, collected and unreleased. To a full vessel nothing may be added, so everything the world had to offer went untasted. Something is missing, or something amiss. 

To allow the water to move, though: this is a skill that can be learned. You can cultivate this ability: you are a garden, and you are the gardener. A moment is a seed. Stop whatever it is you are doing — it only takes a moment — and plant the idea of plenty. Make a small hole in your earth, take a breath, and plant the seed, plant gratitude. 

Then do not let the weeds take it. There are many wild seeds that sprout up in the stillness of a moment, that have laid dormant in the soil for years, perhaps for lifetimes. They rise naturally when there is water and the light of day. Some bring forth beautiful flowers, these wild seeds, and some are noxious; some can physically harm you. This is why humans began to cultivate in the first place — they learned from experience the way of the garden. 

You are the garden, and you are the gardener, and this moment is the seed that you plant. And you gently, carefully cultivate the earth around that young shoot, giving it attention, light and water. You become familiar with weeds and pull them; your hand becomes more subtle; you give little time to less important things. 

With the constancy of your attention, gratitude grows. Soon the plant is so strong, so tall… you needn't look after it at all. It will become a tree that shades you from the heat of day, and a canopy between you and the rain. If something is missing, a search must be made. If someone looks, something is always found.